


Buffet

by junes_discotheque



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, Crossdressing, Food Kink, Hand Feeding, Implied Cannibalism, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal prepares a meal and eats it off Will's stomach. That's about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buffet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HushTheNoise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HushTheNoise/gifts).



When Hannibal asked him to dine with him that evening, Will had been expecting an elegant five-course meal and a great deal of awkwardness. And he had been right to. What he _hadn't_ expected was for Hannibal to eschew traditional place-settings in favor of slowly relieving Will of his clothing and having him lie bare on a long, low table. 

“Now, I want you to lie perfectly still,” Hannibal hums, as he arranges a salad down Will's sternum and pours cold dressing on top. Goosebumps rise on Will's arms and he shudders. “ _Still_ ,” Hannibal repeats. Will forces his trembling to cease. “Good boy.”

Will bites his lip and closes his eyes. His cock is hard, straining at the silk panties (Hannibal's insistence, as he dislikes adding any ingredients he did not plan) and he grips the table on either side. Hannibal clucks his tongue. There's a sharp pain in Will's belly then; he jumps, and his eyes fly open, and he sees Hannibal has speared a leaf on his fork. His stomach still prickles with phantom pain, but it's not nearly as bad as it had been when his eyes were shut.

“I believe I told you twice already to stay still?” Hannibal asks. Will nods. “Eyes up, please, Will. Watch me.”

His fork comes down again and Will braces himself, but this time he barely feels the drag of the prongs against his skin. He watches Hannibal chew, his jaw moving delicately and his lips curved in a small smile.

“Delicious,” Hannibal sighs. He takes a pinch of salad between his fingers—lettuce and carrot and what looks like ham—and drags it through the dark red dressing. “Here, taste.”

Will parts his lips obediently and lets Hannibal drop the salad into his mouth. “Raspberry dressing,” he sighs. Hannibal smiles and nods, and he lingers, allowing Will to lick his fingers clean. 

Hannibal takes up his fork again. Each prick since the first one becomes bolder. It's as though Hannibal slowly forgets he is eating off a living body, and the idea should offend Will, but it doesn't. Each scrape goes straight to his cock, each jab of the fork sending another pulse through his body, and he doesn't realize he's moaning until Hannibal starts tracing his fingers over the line of Will's throat.

“Would you like another taste?” he murmurs. Will nods, and Hannibal smiles indulgently. “Did you like the ham?” He scrapes up a few chunks and slides the bite through the dressing. “It's a new recipe. I'm not sure if it was entirely successful.” 

Will wraps his lips around Hannibal's fingers and licks the ham into his mouth. It's delicious, just the right amount of salt and a pinch of heat that's tempered by the sweet dressing. Will's tongue flicks across his lower lip, catching the light drip of dressing that Hannibal smeared there, and opens his mouth, begging for more.

“My greedy boy,” Hannibal says. He drags the prongs of his fork over Will's nipple, making him cry out and arch off the table. Hannibal presses down, poking hard into the sensitive skin. Will whimpers, squirms, tries to stay still but it _hurts_ and he can feel a tear running down the side of his face. Hannibal catches it with a slice of ham and a few shaved carrots. 

Will watches Hannibal eat it, watches Hannibal's eyes flutter shut with pleasure, as though he is not still digging the fork into Will's nipple. The pain is dissipating slightly, 

“Are you going to stay still now, Will?” Hannibal asks. Will nods, choking on a sob. “Good.” 

He cries out when the fork leaves his nipple, but does not move. Hannibal gives him a pleased smile. Will's cock is throbbing, and his panties are soaking, and Hannibal is dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin.

“There are still four courses,” Hannibal informs him. He pulls out a wet wipe and begins cleaning the sticky dressing off Will's stomach. “I will fetch the next one. Remain still.”

Will watches as Hannibal rises and disappears into the kitchen. Once he's gone, Will rises slightly to look at his torso. Angry red scratches cover his body, and the nipple Hannibal had tormented is hard and peaked and glowing. He whimpers slightly and lies back down. If the first course did this to him, how will he withstand four more? 

~ * ~

Hannibal tests the soup with the tip of his finger. It's warm, but not steaming, and though Will won't find it very comfortable, it won't burn him. Normally, he would pick a light broth with meat and perhaps a few vegetables, but he realized right away that it would be impractical given the bowl. Instead, he has opted for a thick tomato base, with large chunks of meat, brown rice, and long, thin noodles. The last ingredient is more of an excuse to test Will's reaction to the sensation of a fork twirling on his skin than any true culinary purpose. 

He kneels before his beautiful platter and traces the lines he drew with his fork. By the end of the meal, Will's skin will be an elegant painting in pink and red. It excites him, as he is excited to see Will lying exactly where he left him. 

“Good boy,” he says, and ladles soup onto Will's stomach. Will trembles, whimpering, clearly affected by the warm liquid, but he does not move. The soup drips off his sides, pooling in the little trenches carved around the table, and Hannibal restrains himself from leaning forward and licking the drops.

“I have prepared a tomato-based soup, with chicken and noodles and rice,” he says, spooning up a bite of meat and rice. The meat is tender and flaky and the rice is plump and perfectly cooked. “It is heavier than I generally like, but I believe you will enjoy it.”

He scoops up some meat and rice and a few noodles in his fingers and allows the soup to drip into Will's mouth. He seems to strain, without lifting his head, tongue darting out and searching for the food. Hannibal smiles fondly and allows him to take it.

Even aside from Will's remarkable gifts, Hannibal feels a strong sense of protectiveness towards the little empath. It is a fondness he can't quite explain, and desperately wishes he didn't feel, but he cannot deny it makes him feel _alive_ in a way that, up until now, only the meat had. It is a curiosity, and Hannibal intends to fully explore it. 

Right now, Will is licking Hannibal's fingers with a sort of worshipful thoroughness. He jerks his hand away sharply. Will whines at the loss, but Hannibal does not return his fingers. Not yet. He is feeling a fire rising in the pit of his stomach, a rage he cannot quell, and he takes up his fork. 

Will cries out when Hannibal twirls the noodles on his stomach. But he doesn't move, and Hannibal allows himself to stroke a hand through Will's hair. Comfort. A reward for following orders, for being so wonderfully good. 

He twirls his fork again, up and down Will's sternum, calculating Will's moans and cries and tiny, nearly imperceptible twitches. Will's body is a delicate instrument, and Hannibal wishes to play. He'll need all the information he can get for the next course.

When the noodles are gone, he drops his fork and begins scooping up the remaining meat and rice and feeding bites to Will. He paints Will's lips with the tomato and watches, pleased, as Will licks it off. For a brief moment, Hannibal imagines how Will's lips would look stained with blood, but pushes the thought aside. There is plenty of time for that. Hannibal plans to have Will for a long, long time, and one day, he will see his boy's hands and teeth dripping.

Hannibal slides his thumb through the last few drips of tomato broth. Will is sweating, and has been for awhile, and it makes the soup salty. Not unpleasantly salty, Hannibal is surprised to find, but he also knows that Will's particular taste could never be unpleasant. He licks his fingers, tasting sweat and spit and tomato and rice, then pulls out another wet wipe and cleans Will off.

“You've been so good,” Hannibal murmurs. “The main course is next, Will. I hope this good behavior continues.”

Will's eyes are bright, and his dark lashes are shining slightly from the few tears Will shed during the first courses. He nods. “I—yes,” he says. His voice is hoarse. Hannibal is compelled to trace his fingers over Will's hand. 

“I won't be long,” he says, and flees into the kitchen.

~ * ~

Will's skin feels tight and burning, though he thinks the soup can't have been that hot. He aches all over, from his throat to his cock, which is still full and leaking and he thinks of crime scenes and bullets and pulling a trigger—anything to bring himself down. He won't be coming for a while yet, he knows, and while he finds himself becoming terrifyingly aroused at the memory of a gun in his hand, there's mushrooms and dirt and the smell of decay right at the front of his mind and the edge is gone.

He can breathe again.

The scents wafting in from the kitchen are overwhelming, meat and vegetables and spices and Will can't tell what any of them are but his mouth waters anyway. He shivers. He doesn't remember it being that cold when he stepped through the door, or when he removed his clothing and stepped into the panties Hannibal offered him, but now, without Hannibal's food to cover him, he is naked and frozen and alone.

Will swallows a sob, chokes back a cry of Hannibal's name, and forces himself to remain still. Hannibal is certain to return shortly, and cover him again, so that he can be stripped bare under his soft, watchful gaze.

The seconds tick by with agonizing reluctance, so that when Hannibal finally does arrive with a shining platter loaded with the main course, Will feels a deep fury rising within him.

“My dear Will, I do apologize for the delay,” Hannibal says. “The meat took quite a lot longer to cook than I had expected. It's a new rotisserie, you see, and I have found although my old one was broken and a bit of a fire hazard, the new one has a quarter of the power. It's a pity to have to replace it so soon, but I suppose there's nothing to be done.” He holds the platter in one hand—Will marvels at Hannibal's strength and balance—and arranges the food with the other. He sets a trail of thinly-sliced meat across Will's chest, and spoons roasted red potatoes on Will's stomach, and then asparagus at his hips. It is, surprisingly, warmer than the soup had been and Will struggles not to squirm. 

Hannibal smiles proudly and pours a light brown gravy over the meat. “Pork tenderloin, with a mushroom gravy,” he murmurs. “Meat and potatoes. Simple, yet I find that often the most simple foods are the best. Too many exotic ingredients often complicates a dish beyond being enjoyable. Don't you agree?”

He should know Will agrees; he has seen the kinds of things Will eats when he remembers he cannot subsist on coffee and adrenaline. Will nods anyway. Hannibal smiles and spears a piece of meat with his fork, and Will, proudly, does not so much as flinch when the prongs poke him. He's a little distracted with his personal silent congratulations when there's a second silver glint at the corner of his eye, and he sees the steak knife touch the meat.

The serrated edge pulls and drags at Will's skin, and he believes for a moment that Hannibal means to slice right through him—through skin and muscle and bone straight through to his heart. But the knife leaves him almost as soon as it had started cutting, and Hannibal raises a bite to his lips, and before it disappears Will sees little specks of red on the underside.

Hannibal sighs in ecstasy as he chews, his face tilted to the ceiling and his eyes closed. Will's cock twitches. “Perhaps I was too quick to judge the new rotisserie,” he muses. “Come, Will, tell me what you think.” He slices off another bite of meat, and Will stays still though the knife now cuts uncomfortably close to his nipple. As before, Hannibal uses his fingers to slide the food into Will's mouth.

The meat is tender and delicate, and his senses are assaulted by the spices and herbs Hannibal used on the meat, but there is something else—a metallic taste, not unlike—

“I think you might be wrong,” Will says. “The meat is bloody.”

Hannibal laughs. “No, dear Will,” he says, and slides his finger over the places the knife cut. It comes away with just the faintest hint of red blood. “It's not the meat. Oh—please don't fret, I didn't cut nearly deep enough to cause permanent damage. You've already stopped bleeding. By tomorrow, there will be no evidence my knife touched you at all.”

Will's not entirely sure that's true, but given Hannibal is positioning his knife right over Will's nipple now, he decides it's not worth arguing the matter. 

He braces himself, preparing his mind to accept the knife slicing through his sensitive skin, but it doesn't come, and he sees Hannibal smiling and chewing above him. Hannibal catches his gaze for a split second before Will glances down at his mouth. “Oh, my dear,” Hannibal says. “I do have control, you know. I can cut through so carefully that you never feel even a tingle.”

Hannibal lowers the knife again and slices, _fast_ , through the meat. This time Will does feel the sting. He howls, more with shock than with pain, and Hannibal strokes Will's sweaty hair from his eyes.

“Of course, sometimes I _want_ you to feel it.” 

Will's eyes flutter shut as Hannibal slides a piece of meat, followed by a slice of potato, into his mouth. He chews slowly, enjoying the rich spices and (surprisingly) even the small amount of his blood that seeps into the pork.

“I know what the pain does to you,” Hannibal says, like someone might mention a particularly confounding commercial they'd seen the night before. “You fear it; I saw how you tensed when my knife—” he places the very tip of his knife over Will's bared nipple and twirls it slowly, and Will whines—“but I can see it in your eyes, Will. You enjoy it.”

The knife travels down his stomach, over the potatoes, down to the asparagus covering his hips. Will can feel himself trembling, though he is trying his best to stay still. He hopes Hannibal notices Will's effort. He hopes it is pleasing.

He still cries out when Hannibal slices through vegetable and skin—four times, so fast Will barely has time to register what's been done—and he feels his hips grow wet with his own blood. He's hard again, and he thinks if Hannibal had given him permission, he would have come just from that. 

Hannibal is using his blood as a sauce, dipping asparagus and potato and meat and eating. It stains his lips red, and Will finds he wants nothing more than to run his tongue over them and taste what Hannibal tastes.

As though he can read Will's thoughts, Hannibal's eyes dart over to Will and he smiles. “Would you like a taste?” he asks, and without waiting for Will's answer, slips a blood-soaked head of asparagus into Will's mouth.

It's gone in an instant, and Will opens his mouth, silently begging for more. Hannibal laughs. Potato follows, then meat, and Will realizes Hannibal is feeding more to him than eating himself. 

Finally, when the main course is obliterated from Will's stomach, Hannibal slides his fingers over the knife-cuts on Will's hips. He raises them so Will can see. They are stained, yes, but barely.

“Your wounds are already healing,” Hannibal says. “I expect the bleeding will have stopped completely by the time I return with dessert.”

Will nods. Hannibal cleans him. 

~ * ~

Dessert turns out to be homemade vanilla ice cream, because Hannibal says he wants to see how Will reacts to the cold. He places two scoops on the scratches on Will's hips (which, he notices, have indeed stopped bleeding). It burns, strangely, and without thinking he tries to twist away from it. Hannibal presses a hand down on his chest. 

“I believe I told you to stay still,” he says, scooping a bit of ice cream with the other hand. “You've been doing so well, Will, I'd hate for you to ruin it.”

Will groans a little, but remains still, and Hannibal smiles.

“Good. Now, I want you to try this.” He swipes two fingers through the ice cream and brings them to Will's lips. Will wraps his tongue around the fingers, licking them into his mouth, and sucks hard—the ice cream is sweet and delicious, yes, but it's Hannibal he wants. His cock aches, and he finds he wishes the fingers were coated in a different white substance.

They finish the ice cream quickly, disappointingly, and Will lets his eyes flutter shut. Hannibal will be standing soon, to fetch the last course, and then, maybe, Will's torment will be at an end.

But Hannibal doesn't leave. Instead, he wipes his hands on his napkin and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of Will's panties.

“What—” Will chokes, then cries out as his cock is freed.

“I have saved the best course for last,” Hannibal murmurs, and despite the large meal they have just shared, Hannibal is staring at Will's cock like he hasn't eaten in days.

Will gulps.

~ * ~

Will's cock is beautiful, delicate, curving elegantly against his stomach. It is fully-hard, angry red-purple, and a steady stream of pre-ejaculate runs down the side. Hannibal grips it firmly, enjoying Will's smooth skin and the beautiful choked noises he makes with Hannibal's hand on him.

“Do not release,” Hannibal orders. “Not until I give permission. Do you understand?” Will nods frantically. Hannibal runs his thumb over the head of Will's cock, lubricating it, and then begins to run his fist slowly up and down the shaft. He watches Will intently, as he had through the meal. The young man is wonderfully expressive, his face screwed tight with both pleasure and agony and desperation.

Hannibal expects Will to disobey him. He expects Will to come without permission. But he does not, and Hannibal would give anything to see what is going on inside that beautiful head of his (and perhaps one day he will, but not yet, _not yet_. 

Obedience deserves a reward, he decides. He leans forward and slides his lips over the head of Will's cock, taking it into his mouth. At once, he is assaulted by Will's unique taste, quite unlike anything he has experienced (and he is a connoisseur of human taste). He takes in all he can, right to the base, throat working around the head, and laps at Will's balls. Above him, Will is screaming, begging, desperate, and it is the most beautiful sound Hannibal has ever heard.

He pulls off and smiles. “You may come, my dear,” he says, and only just has enough time to get his mouth around Will's cock before the young man spills, arching and howling.

Hannibal catches Will's seed in his mouth, but does not swallow. He helps Will to sit up, then tangles his fingers in Will's hair and pulls him in close for a kiss.

Will struggles a little, clearly not expecting Hannibal's mouth to still be full of his come, but he accepts it anyway, and they share the final course with tongues and teeth.


End file.
